


I can't lie no more, can't hide no more

by blondecrowns



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 07:23:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondecrowns/pseuds/blondecrowns
Summary: "It’s been a while since she’s indulged this kind of idiocy, a lingering impulse of another time and another, more foolish Sansa who dreamt of great wars won in the name of love." aka another "Jon and Sansa having A Moment™ before the battle for Winterfell begins" fic.





	I can't lie no more, can't hide no more

**Author's Note:**

> \- she (i) doesn't (don't) even go here i.e. very new and very green to the jonsa fandom  
> \- i haven't written fic in about 2 years  
> \- i'm not well versed in GoT canon mythology or specific terms etc. so pls be gentle  
> \- i fully expect to be deprived of a goodbye scene between these two luvahs but i'm hoping that if we do get one on the show, it's along these same lines... @ GoT writers here's lookin' at u  
> \- there's a vague nod to a s1 peaky blinders convo b/w tommy and grace in this fic, finger guns if ya find it

There is nothing in the distance but a faint, white-ish glow lining the horizon, like a strangely sinister light at the end of the tunnel, and Sansa thinks it can’t be more than a few minutes before something happens. Below, Brienne shouts orders to her men, Dothraki and Unsullied rally each other in strange tongues, and every now and then the clang of metal punctuates the pre-war symphony as dragonglass and the like are parcelled out last-minute . 

Sansa knows she’s playing with fire by staying out for so long. It can’t be more than a few minutes, and yet she can’t leave. Her feet feel rooted to the spot, waiting for something, anything, waiting for it to begin and then maybe it’ll all seem real. It’s been a while since she’s indulged this kind of idiocy, a lingering impulse of another time and another, more foolish Sansa who dreamt of great wars won in the name of love.

Perhaps it’ll start with a stray arrow. Or something more devastating, more nightmarish: the whole sky lit up with blue fire as The Night King’s dragon reins holy terror down upon them. The new Sansa can’t forget the things Bran told them when Jon returned what already feels like a thousand years ago, but was really only the day before yesterday, and nor can she lie to herself: 

Winterfell won’t survive this. It can’t, and if it does, it’ll be nothing short of a miracle.

Snow crunches beside her and Sansa's head whips to the source.

Jon. It’s just Jon, breathing heavily like the cold has taken the wind out of him as he approaches in his battle-gear, fixing his gloves on tighter. Sansa exhales.

“Arya?” he enquires without looking at her, coming to a stop a metre or so away.

“Down below. She was here just before.”

“Good.” He nods, keeping his gaze forward over the battlements. “That’s good. Stick with her. You’ll be safer together.”

“You mean  _ I’ll _ be safe with her. Our sister is a deadly assassin, and I - ”

“ - could save us all if The Night King were able to be negotiated with.”

A quiet warmth settles within her as grey eyes meet her own blue. She think she might see something of a smile on Jon’s face, one perhaps mimicked by her own, but she doesn’t pause to find out, ducking her head. When she looks back up, Jon’s attention is diverted over the battlements once more.

Snow and silence envelop them. 

Sansa’s already risked too much time. She needs to leave.

Jon sighs suddenly, calling Sansa’s attention to him just as he steps towards her. Whatever trouble he had meeting her eyes before is gone. Her heart rate spikes, but by now Sansa is more than used to this happening when she’s around Jon. 

A nervous energy radiates off him when he finally speaks, one seemingly unconnected to their impending doom. 

“After all this is over,” he begins, “If I survive - ”

“ _ When  _ you survive.”

He swallows. “After,” he starts again, his voice low and rough and ploughing on before Sansa can interrupt for a second time: “I’m going to tell you some things.”

His words hang in the balance, and Sansa might know what to make of them if he wasn’t looking at her like  _ that.  _ Open and sincere and hopeful somehow. Hoping for what?

“Jon…” she sighs, realising all of a sudden. “I know.”

“You know?”

“I know about Daenerys. I don’t know how you earned her support… I can guess, I can take a fairly educated guess,” she mumbles. Draws a deep breath in, and meets his gaze. “The important thing is I know why and I’m sorry for not trusting you.”

Jon frowns, still looking at her, and Sansa has the strangest impression that she’s disappointed him somehow. But then, after a moment, he exhales on something like a laugh and glances down. Her eyebrows knit together.

“‘Course you figured it out” Jon says, almost to himself. “Should’ve known. Arya was right.”

Sansa wants to ask what that means, but what comes out instead is:

“Jon, why are you here right now? It’s about to start.”

Jon meets her gaze again. Lips parted slightly, his eyes flicker over her face and between her eyes without breaking, searching, and Sansa’s reminded of another moment in this same place, months ago now, when they spoke of family, of trust, and of Winter. It’s the coldest it’s been all season, it’ll be the longest night, and yet Sansa feels inexplicably warm, as though they could be back in her solar, discussing battle strategy in front of the hearth. 

How must she look to him right now? Sansa can only imagine. Stupid, idiot girl who can’t control her emotions, the stuttered breathing that she tries desperately to control as she guesses at what he might say next and comes up empty. 

People are predictable, Littlefinger told her many times and in not so few words. But not Jon. Jon is the only person Sansa can’t predict. Even this strange new person Arya has become is increasingly familiar, and she can always  count on Bran to be weirdly vague and cryptic. But Sansa has a habit of underestimating Jon, though it’s not like he’s guiltless of the same with her, and it occurs to Sansa that perhaps this is why they’re always fighting.

They’re not fighting now.

Jon steps in again. He’s close enough now to do something reckless, like take her hand or kiss her forehead again. And Sansa wants -

What does she want? 

What is she waiting for?

Jon lifts a gloved hand to her cheek. So briefly she could almost have imagined it, he rubs his thumb along her cheekbone and then back again, lingering there for a beat. 

Sansa holds her breath. For a single, insane moment she thinks he might kiss her; thinks that maybe she hasn’t been imagining things at all, not now, not since they found each other again, and that she does know why he’s here after all. That perhaps it’s the same reason she stayed out so long. 

Abruptly, Jon’s expression hardens. Cool air burns against her cheek, and it’s only as she watches him step away, watches him take a deep, shuddering breath and his attention turn to where he entered, that she realises his hand is no longer there. And it’s not until Ghost is already by his side that she places the source of the snow crunching beneath approaching feet. 

The large, white wolf fixes its red eyes upon her, while his partner looks anywhere but, and Sansa comes to with the sudden urge to hide, to be as far away from Ghost’s knowing gaze as possible.

“Go find your sister,” Jon says, not ungently. “It’s not safe for you up here. And I can’t fight this battle if I think you’re not safe.”

Sansa stays frozen. After another moment, she swallows and, with great effort, wills her feet forward so that she’s standing beside him, reaching out to take his hand.

Finally, he looks over his shoulder at her, the press of his lips belied by an open desperation in his eyes.

“Good luck, Jon.”

He hesitates, his mouth opening like he might say something back, before it shuts again. He nods once, tightly. 

Sansa holds his gaze for one moment more. On a whim, she lifts his hand to her lips, holding it there with her own two, turning into him slightly. 

_ Enough _ , she thinks. This has to be enough.

Without waiting, without looking to see his expression, she lets go and walks swiftly past him, back in the direction he came.

She’s already halfway down the stairs by the time Ghost joins her side.

 

-

 

John keeps his gaze forward as Sansa disappears from his periphery, a flicker of red enveloped by the darkness. His stomach churns and he lifts his head, closes his eyes and inhales the frigid, smoky air. 

It does nothing to help his shaking hand, still burning where her lips were pressed not a moment ago, and Jon thanks all the Old Gods that she’s stronger than him. Strong enough to walk away.

A slow whine pierces the air. Jon looks down at the wolf. 

He swallows. “Go on, then.”

Ghost disappears in the same direction, bolting past him.

_ Keep her safe, _  he thinks before he heading off too. 


End file.
